


Dark Pond

by Sp00py



Series: A Study in Snuffering [10]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Gen, Horror, Lil kid Snufkin, Or just... endearingly bizarre, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Snufkin is an idiot, Surreal, Takes place just after Comet in Moominvalley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24102034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: Snufkin wakes up from his hibernation early. Wintertime in Moominvalley is a strange, new world, and he's eager to explore it.
Series: A Study in Snuffering [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/913866
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one is another oldie from April 2018. It's mostly written (I think, still rereading it lol) but unfinished, so tags will be updated. Also, if u read _Mama Foxter's Week of Wonders_ , this is where Wuffkin came from!

Winter in Moominvalley was a quiet affair. The snow fell heavy and thick, insulating Moominhouse as its occupants slept their long, winter sleep. Moomin slept with Snufkin (because Sniff snored), Snork and the Snorkmaiden slept together, and Sniff slept with Moominmamma and Moominpappa as he was still too little to sleep alone. There were other people like the Hemulen and little Creeps tucked away in cupboards and spare rooms, too, making the house very full but very, very silent.

Snufkin woke early. He was asleep, then he wanted to be awake, then he was. That was how things usually were for him. He did what he wanted, when he wanted. And now he could feel a chill nipping at his nose, and see dark shapes in the faint blue light fighting its way through the snow and glass of Moomin’s window. He studied them curiously, blankets pulled up around his ears, puzzling through what they were. Some looked like people, or animals, or strange creatures, but completely still. Frozen.

He’d never hibernated in a house before, so was slow to match these visitors to chairs and dust covers. A little to his left, Moomin slept on, a round, soft mound that snuffled a little bit. Some people said that hibernations were full of all sorts of traditions and superstitions, and that falling asleep with someone on your mind meant that you would think fondly on them forever. He didn’t know  _ who _ exactly, said these things, but that was how stories worked. They got passed along down a winding, branching vine, a little changed every time they were shared, so every story, even ones Snufkin had heard before, was new.

Snufkin watched Moomin, thoughts drifting through the murky, dreamlike haze of waking up in such a new place at a new time. Snufkin’s hibernations had been getting shorter and shorter over the years. Soon he suspected he’d be awake all the time, and he’d finally see all the things he missed while asleep. Winter was a time of mystery for him, something he had just toed the edge of like a new fishing spot.

Snufkin threw off his blankets and leapt to his feet, then immediately jumped back onto the bed. It was  _ cold _ , even through his thick socks. He took his next attempt more gingerly, found the rug on the floor and inched his way out of the warmth of his blanket nest. The thickest blanket came with him as he shuffled around the house, looking for things to bundle up in before heading outside.

He found a motley collection of knitted items, and, wrapped up like a living pile of laundry, Snufkin climbed out Moomin’s window and tumbled down the gentle incline of snow. Snufkin didn’t know this, but gentle was a rare thing for snow to be. This time of winter it often melted, then hardened into a sheet like sandpaper, or collapsed and smothered you, or simply blew away your footprints and blinded you, leaving you lost and alone in the middle of nothingness. He had only ever seen snow in the end of its life, dripping down icicles, a patchwork on the ground. He’d never woken  _ this  _ early before, to catch it in its brightest, whitest days even though the sky itself sprawled low and dark.

He kept sinking into the snow with each step, and soon was the most exhausted, cold Snufkin anyone could imagine (if anyone had been around to see). He sat down on the bridge, which had miraculously not been covered by more than a foot or so of snow, and tried to warm his poor nose as he examined Moominvalley. Nothing looked like it normally did, and his excitement was tinged with a bit of unease that a world he knew so well now after following Moomin home like a stray cat was somehow completely alien. It made him feel small. Snufkin was small, of course, but he had never felt it before. In fact, he had felt exactly the right size to walk the world, across active volcanoes and deserts and cities. Snufkin belonged anywhere and everywhere, he thought.

Far away, trees stood tall, stark and black, but fading to grey as though being absorbed into the sky. The Lonely Mountains seemed closer than usual, sensing the solitude and yearning for it. Somewhere out there, Snufkin could feel the Groke hunting. Or yearning, too. She made him sad for reasons he didn’t know, and he realized winter did, too.

“Hello, there!” a person called, distracting Snufkin from the looming mountains. He looked around, trying to spot where the sound had come from, and even with only whiteness almost missed the red stripes and blue cap of a person walking his way. He adjusted his layers so they didn’t fall when he waved back.

“Hello!”

She had a much easier time navigating the snow than Snufkin had, toes long and splayed, and was soon upon him. “I’m Too-ticky, and you came from Moominhouse, didn’t you?”

“I did. I’ve never seen winter like this before.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s very lonely.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Too-ticky asked, helping Snufkin to his feet and matching his pace. They walked away from Moominhouse, toward the bath house.

“I don't know if it's an anything,” Snufkin said, before he came to a stop. The ocean was all gone! Nothing but endless white blurred the lines between shore and sea. He’d seen ice on it before, just before spring, but he could always see the water farther out. “Where’s the ocean run off to?”

Too-ticky smiled at his worry. “It’s just under the ice. It will be back come spring.”

He trusted her, as she knew much more about winter than he did, and, thus comforted, let himself be led to the bathing house.

“Do you live here in winter?”

“I don’t know, yet. I’ve only just come in from the forest. I like the look of this bathing house, though.”

She let Snufkin in first and settled in like she’d always lived in the bathing house, starting a fire in the stove and pulling chairs around it. Snufkin took off his wet boots and let his own smaller, black paws stretch out toward the warmth. Something in the wardrobe shuffled around, and they regarded it silently, before letting it be. They said nothing between them, but soon Snufkin had shed his outer layers and he and Too-ticky curled up on them, watching the dim sun leak through the colored glass of the windows.

What a strange world winter was, Snufkin thought. Even the ocean couldn’t fight it off. It reminded him a little of the comet, and he wondered if Too-ticky had seen it, too. She probably had, as she seemed very observant. His thoughts turned to the stars above, and whether or not he’d recognize these winter constellations, and soon Snufkin was asleep again.

He woke up with little creatures curled up against him, and Too-ticky humming at the woodstove. Snufkin yawned, and the little creatures scattered and turned all to shadow and air. He hoped he hadn’t slept too long. He was tired of sleeping.

“They like you a lot,” Too-ticky said, pouring out a cup of soup and handing it to Snufkin. “They were shy at first with us here, but it seems even winter mice know about Snufkin.”

“Oh dear,” Snufkin said mildly. “Admirers.”

Too-ticky laughed, and it was such a nice, genuine sound you had to giggle along too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no clue how old Snufkin is supposed to be in this. He’s on a whole different plane of existence, age probably means nothing to him anymore. How old do we think he is? Also I reread all of what was already written and the rating _has_ gone up, just as warning.

Snufkin left the bathing house with a quiet goodbye to the mice, and the thing in the wardrobe, and Too-ticky once he felt properly shored against the cold. He still wanted to explore, and certainly couldn’t do that in a bathing house. Too-ticky had helped him tie bark from the stove’s wood supply to his shoes, giving him a broader footprint and easier movements on the icing snow. She told him to watch for dark ice and dark intents, because winter was a new world to him, and sometimes people took advantage of newness, then sent him on his way.

He examined the ice first, how it decorated the bathing house and pier like delicate lacing, but was thick and shining beneath his feet. He licked some experimentally, and was pleased to find it still tasted of the sea, like Too-ticky had said. The ocean hadn’t gone, it was just hibernating, too.

“Sleep well,” he whispered to it before he climbed to his feet and moved further inland. The ocean, the trees, the world itself seemed asleep. Maybe, Snufkin pondered, this was all just a dream of the Protector of all Small Beasts. It would be nice to be a dream. You could go anywhere, then, do anything.

  
  
  


Snufkin walked with no destination in mind, enjoying the winter’s bite now that he knew to expect it. It was like a little dog nipping in excitement, and you could hardly fault it for being excited. The world was so big! So empty and quiet. He could appreciate it better knowing he wasn’t  _ truly  _ alone. Snufkins liked being alone, but they didn’t like loneliness, and without Too-ticky and the winter animals, it would be a very lonely winter indeed.

He walked along, losing himself in the endless white, the trees like brushstrokes instead of wood. Everything looked like those foreign pictures he had seen in his travels, from Japan if he remembered rightly (and he was sure he did). Minimal strokes on a blank canvas, capturing the idea of the world without worrying about what it really was.

Snufkin passed a collection of Whompers not sleeping, but bundled up like he was and playing in the snow. He paused to watch their game, trying to discern what it was, before a stray snowball caught him right in the face.

He toppled back with a startled cry, and their play stopped. They swarmed around Snufkin, not a single one apologizing but all very pleased to have a new playmate. Snufkin shook out the clumps of snow in his scarf and, now that he knew there were no rules, just snowballs, gladly joined in with them.

Soon their mothers and fathers called the Whompers away to warm themselves by hearths and with warm drinks, leaving Snufkin alone again in the afternoon chill. It had never truly gotten light out, but it was already getting darker. He shook out more snow and relished the quiet that swooped in like a smothering shadow. Snow lanterns began to blossom across the valley, surrounded by small dark shapes huddling close to their soft yellow glow.

Snufkin took a roundabout path back to the bathing house, cold, damp, and hungry. He didn’t see Too-ticky, but found a hole in the ice glowing with more lamplight. Curious, he peered down into it.

“Hello,” Too-ticky said. She was fishing in low, low water.

Snufkin climbed down and sat next to her. They said nothing, because that’s simply what one does when fishing. He watched the dark water, hypnotized by the flashing scales of fish hardy enough to survive the cold. They glinted like the moonlight and stars missing from the cloudy skies, and Snufkin pulled his knees up close, curling into a little ball of warmth in a dark, dark winter.

Too-ticky pulled up her line and, taking up her bucket of fish, left Snufkin to the icy cavern and his thoughts, which were mostly about nothing at all but the present. Sounds echoed strangely here, and every moment was a new experience. He wondered what was far out in the ocean, what was high up in the mountains (besides the Groke, though Snufkin felt in his nose that she was the least scary thing out and about now). Winter was a time for shadows and icy specters, and Snufkin wanted to meet them all and hear their tales.

“What’s out in the snow? Who’s out there when night falls?” He asked Too-ticky when he finally emerged from the hole in the ice and joined her for fish stew.

“You shouldn’t ask after dangerous things so eagerly,” she advised, spooning portions into a warm bowl for him to cradle in his small, cold paws.

“Are they really so terrible?”

“Oh, yes. Worse than the Groke, poor dear.”

“Poor dear,” Snufkin echoed. He liked that about Too-ticky, he decided. Winter seemed to make its people kinder, sympathizing with the Groke. He supposed in a world with so few people and such harsh climes, kindness was the best course of action.

They fell to their own contemplations, Snufkin wondering what sort of poor creature was worse than the Groke, Too-ticky thinking on Snufkin. He was clearly something born of summer and spring, and made for it too, succumbing easily to the warmth of sleep. He was already sinking into dreams, and his eyes were still open.

She stayed awake the night as Snufkin slept, not sure why but feeling a sort of unease. Winter was a more unforgiving time than other seasons, and Snufkin wasn’t like a Moomin or a Hemulen or a Snork, he wasn’t protected by softness and fur and company. She’d seen him, walking along by himself, only seeking out others when he wanted and otherwise living happily enough on his own. She herself did that, but winter was her domain much like spring was his.

“Be careful, Snufkin,” she reminded him when he woke up, ready to strike out into the winter again. Maybe this time, he was thinking, he’d set up his own little nest somewhere out there, returning only when spring came and Moomin woke up. “You’re very small still.”

“I know,” he said, not at all offended that she worried. Most people didn’t think to worry about Snufkins. They did things most wouldn’t consider at all for fear of the danger (or simply because it was forbidden— imagine, not doing something just because someone told you not to!), and most everyone accepted that about them. He probably wouldn’t even consider warnings from people who stayed safe inside homes and villages all their lives, but Too-ticky was like him more than she wasn’t, and just like if any other Snufkin had told him to be careful, he made sure to heed her words.

“Thank you,” he added, before he began the careful walk along the dock to the shore. First stop, Moominhouse. He had supplies to gather, a bag to pack, and a Moomin to promise he’d be home for when spring arrived, if he happened to be a little late.


End file.
